I've Been Acquainted With The Night
by zeitoon
Summary: Alternative ending to X3 which springboards into a post-apocalyptic exploration of character transformations. Magneto is at war with the humans, and the X-men are caught in the backlash. New Chapter: the aftermath of alcatraz...
1. Epiphanies

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, just borrowing characters, and inserting plot.

**A/N: **This story starts of with an alternative ending to X3 (I guess it's been done before). But, time permitting, I'm planning to take this in a different direction. Expect post-apocalyptic angst, and perhaps some character deaths. Dark themes, some language.

I have been one acquainted with the night.  
I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain.  
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.  
I have passed by the watchman on his beat  
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet  
When far away an interrupted cry  
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;  
And further still at an unearthly height,  
O luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.

I have been one acquainted with the night.

Robert Frost

* * *

As far as epiphanies went, Rogue felt mighty gypped. She had heard that epiphanies were supposed to be all enlightening and liberating, like fate whispering in your ear, revealing precisely how things were supposed to play out. But all she felt was something she would later chalk up to temporary insanity. One second had her minding her own business, standing in line for the Cure, and the next had her suddenly fulfilling the strange compulsion to walk up to and drain the memories of some shifty looking character she had seen sulking in the sidelines.

In her defense, the man had struck her as terribly suspicious, someone who looked exactly like the type of mutant Magneto would scrape off the street and recruit for his cause. His unnaturally tinged green eyes flickered with disgust across the mutants in the line from beneath a mane of unkept hair, and his hands kept twitching furiously, picking at the sleeves of a dark trench coat that all but swallowed his scrawny frame. Maybe Wolverine's paranoia had started to rub off on her. Or maybe all those news reports of the Brotherhood blowing up Cure clinics had struck a chord with her, and damned if she had come this close to finally, FINALLY getting what she had always wanted only to be thwarted by some megalomaniac and his scraggly flunkies.

In an act so completely out of character, Rogue had abandoned her position in the line, walked up to the man, and, ignoring his complete bewilderment at her approach, proceeded to violently grasp his hand with her bare one. Mercifully, her target only managed to gawk at her incredulously for a few seconds, before slumping over at her feet.

And then, all she could feel was anger. Pure, unbridled hatred towards all those spineless bastards standing in line. Here she was, getting murdered in the middle of the street by some sick bitch with two-toned hair, writhing in pain before their very eyes, and all they did was stand mutely by. They deserved everything that was coming to them. They deserved to be roasted alive, and she had enough explosives to do just that. Hell she had enough to flatten the entire block. She almost felt a pang of regret. The poor bastards were never going to find out that Magneto had stormed Alcatraz island, they were never going to realize that he had liberated their kind, or enjoy their newfound freedom. They had thrown away their chance at freedom the minute ... they ... wait ...

She took a deep, spluttering breath. She was not ... Gilbert Jacovic ... she was Rogue ... Marie. She was Marie.

She needed to warn the X-Men.

Rogue fumbled with her purse, fished her cell phone out and switched it on, trying to forget the childish defiance with which she had switched it off in the first place.

But Bobby wasn't answering his phone. And her next best shot, Jubilee, nearly bit her head off.

"Where the hell have you been? Aren't you watching the news? The goddamn Golden Gate bridge has been yanked and flung across the bay! Bobby, Kitty and Peter are probably facing off against hundreds of mutants."

"What? You mean –"

"Rogue! They needed you, but you up and disappeared. I don't know the full details, since no one ever tells me anything really, but ..."

Rogue wasn't listening anymore.

Shit. She was an X-Man. Her team, her friends were risking their lives to stop Magneto, while she had been mired in her own self pity. She needed to get her act together right now. She needed to help them fight against the hordes of Magneto's mutants.

But there was the small matter of getting to San Francisco immediately... as in right now ... as in she couldn't really afford a plane ticket, let alone a six hour flight to the West Coast.

She had been ignoring it until now, but she suddenly became aware of a faint crackle of energy beneath her skin, and she smiled as a snippet of memory came rushing to the forefront.

Gilbert Jacovic could teleport.

How so incredibly convenient.

* * *

In the thick of things, the chaos was suffocating. It swirled through the air, intermingled with the ashes, with the overwhelming scent of death, and clogged his airways. It was virtually impossible for him to breathe except in heavy gasps. And if he were any ordinary human, he might have considered chalking up the heavy breathing to physical exhaustion. But he was no ordinary human: he was the Wolverine. And at the moment, his current discomfort was the least of his concerns.

No, there were much more important things to worry about. Take for example the monstrous tower of water poised oven Alcatraz island, threatening to eviscerate it at any moment, or the screams of soldiers and mutants as the tornado of smoldering ash caught up with them, swallowed them whole, and continued on its path of obliteration. It was funny really, that humans and mutants found equality only in death. Wolverine would have laughed if his lungs hadn't been on fire.

Instead, he ventured to glance out into fray from behind a pillar he had chosen for cover.

And there she was, the eye of the storm, the nucleus of destruction: Jean Grey.

She was the Pheonix, terrible and beautiful. She was the pure essence of life and death united in a single force of nature. She was a goddess that demanded the right to inflict her divine wrath upon all the poor morals that surrounded her. Even in her most terrifying form, she still managed to take his breath away.

Yet, although Phoenix glowed with an unworldly magnificence, Wolverine's heart mourned for the Jean he knew, the Jean he loved. He knew that the Phoenix needed to be stopped, but to do so without hurting Jean seemed near impossible.

But, there was something else in the air. Something entirely out of place. Something that smelt vaguely of sunshine, distant shores, and bittersweet tears. He felt the pressure of the air around him shift unnaturally, felt time and space constrict to the point of a needle, and then expand again.

"Logan!"

"What the –"

Wolverine blinked several times, because clearly he was hallucinating. Rogue was definitely not standing ten feet away from him just as though she had been there all along. But if Wolverine had learned anything, he had learned to trust his keen senses. So he scowled at Rogue's lopsided grin.

"Kid, where the hell did you come from?" he growled.

"I teleported. I'm here to help –"

But whatever Rogue had to say was cut short by the whir of a large chunk of debris hurtling towards the position she was standing in. Wolverine grabbed her arm and hoisted her beside him in the nick of time, avoiding the falling projectile. Wolverine watched her eyes widen with bewilderment as she finally became aware of the vast devastation surrounding her. Although her features hadn't changed, her quickening heartbeat told Wolverine how frightened she actually was.

"Look kid, you can explain how you got here later. Right now, I need you to find Storm and the rest of the team. Find any survivors, and get them aboard the Blackbird."

He watched Rogue gulp, and nod her head nervously. But as she rose from her position, she froze as her eyes fell upon the figure in the distance.

"Is that ... is that Dr. Grey?"

"No," he said, with absolute finality, "Jean's gone. That's the Phoenix."

And just like that, something inside him snapped. Jean was gone. His decision had been made. As he watched Rogue step away from the pillar, with the intention of heading back, he unsheathed his claws. He wondered if Rogue could tell.

But Rogue only needed to take one look at him, one glance at the desperate determination on his face, reflected even in the glimmer of his claws, before she knew that his heart was breaking.

"My god, you're going to kill her."

Her voice was small, merely a whisper shattered by the cacophony of the whirling ash.

He knew that he should have left then, he should have launched himself into the whirlwind of ash. But instead, for an instant, he turned to look into Rogue's eyes. He didn't know what he expected to find there, but it was definitely not the strange tranquility that seemed to permeate her features, or the faint smile on her lips, a smile like she knew a secret.

"I think I understand what I have to do now."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"I think ... I think I know how things are supposed to work out. Why I didn't take the Cure today ... why Dr. Grey is supposed to live."

All Wolverine could do was stare at her incredulously. They were wasting precious time here, and he wanted to tell her that, but somehow he was mesmerized by how strangely confident her voice sounded. She crossed the distance between them, the faint smile still on her lips, but her eyes were looking beyond him. An uneasy feeling settled into the pit of his stomach, and Wolverine, a creature of instinct never ignored the signs. Yet ...

"It's like I can hear the pieces falling into place. Everything that's happened before, everything was just prelude to this moment, to what I have to do."

"You're doing nothing but what I tell you, stripes," Wolverine said with a sternness that could shatter glass, "Now get out of here."

"I'm sorry Logan."

Before he could realize what she was doing, he felt her fingertips rest gently against his right forearm. He felt his words and his protests disintegrate from his mind. And although her touch paralyzed him instantly, his last coherent thought was to wonder how she had managed to take her gloves off without him noticing.

Then, he succumbed to darkness.

* * *

**A/N **Liked it? Hated it? Please review! I'd love to hear what you think


	2. Ashes

**Disclaimer: **do not own anything, just borrowing, yada yada

First, a word of warning. This chapter isn't happy. So if you are delicate at heart, beware. Now, on with the story!

* * *

Despite all evidence to the contrary, the world was not ending.

The sun was going to rise tomorrow, and the earth's rotation was going to continue unfettered. Life was, after all, quite resilient to the many assaults and outbursts of man.

But if the world were to end, Bobby Drake imagined that it would look no worse than the scene that unfolded before him.

He was, after all, clinging to a doubtful strip of piping for dear life as people and objects happened to spontaneously combust all around him. Although chance had spared him so far, he remained tragically unprotected from an impending flood of ocean water that was momentarily held at bay above the island of Alcatraz as if by magic.

"I think Dr. Grey might be a tad obsessed with drowning," he said out loud to no one in particular, to the rushing wind, and the rustling ashes.

Maybe his parents were right. Maybe life as a self-fashioned super-hero-slash-action-figure wasn't all it was cut out to be. Especially not if it ended suddenly, and prematurely on this god-forsaken rock.

"We need to get out of here!" he yelled at anyone who would listen.

But then someone yelled:

"Where's Wolverine?"

He squinted, and tried to scan the billowing cinders for any sign of the wolf-man. He finally spotted his prone form splayed out across the rubble, less that fifty yards from where he was crouching.

Promptly, his training kicked in, and he bellowed:  

"Wolverine's down. I'm moving in for recovery."

Adopting the nifty new maneuver he had learned today, Bobby allowed his skin to frost over, and hoped against all hopes that he could continue generating a new layer of frost faster than it could be telekinetically disintegrated.

Then he took off in the direction of Wolverine, the fiery tendrils of Phoenix's mind pounding against him and tearing at his makeshift armor. When he was about two seconds away from his target, something else caught his eye.

A lone figure, a mere speck against the cyclone of fire, stood its ground, endured, fought its way closer to the heart of the beast.

"Is that ... "

The figure's frame was barely clad in charred strips of clothing. But its skin ... it's skin was ablaze, a flaming meteor cast in bright contrast against the ashen sky.

"Rogue!"

The figure should have been writhing in the floor with pain, should have been reduced to crumbling cinders like the others. But instead of disintegrating, the figure's skin continued to regenerate.

"Rogue!"

When did she get here? What the hell was she doing? What was she thinking?

The answer, simply put, was as follows: Rogue definitely was not thinking at all. Not when her flesh scorched violently, crumbled away, and knit itself back together again. Not when the tremendous pain overloaded her senses, and suffocated any semblance of coherent thought. And definitely not when her mind was exposed, stripped raw, and left naked before the all seeing eyes of the mighty Phoenix.

She drew in her last reserves of energy – a dwindling stock of rashness and pure adrenalin – in a final attempt to force her legs forward, to anesthetize her mind. And it hurt ... Christ it hurt so much.

"I am numb. I feel nothing, see nothing, hear nothing. I am but a wind in a canyon, a lilly upon a lake. I am ... oh God ..."

There were tears in her eyes, but they never fell. How could they, when the ravenous inferno vaporized everything in its wake?

"There is no pain, no fire, just a purifying salve. I am purging away my sins ... my curse ... my skin. My skin is but a husk to be shed, to be whisked away by the wind."

Somehow, she felt better. Perhaps the fire, even the pain, were necessary. God knows she had hated her skin so much, that in her darkest hour she had dreamt of burning it away in a cleansing blaze.

But something was amiss. Her neurons were somehow still transmitting signals to her brain. Why wasn't she on the ground already, convulsing and drooling? Why was she still able to move her limbs at all?

There was no doubt about it. Phoenix wanted her to get closer, beckoned to her like a flame would beckon an entranced moth. She had lulled her into ignoring the deterioration of her healing abilities, until, all at once, they were gone entirely, leaving nothing but pain and dread in their wake.

But no matter: she had already arrived at her destination.

There, in the eye of the storm, time stood still. Nothing existed beyond the moment. Nothing beyond Phoenix ... her paralyzing smile ... and Marie.

But Phoenix faltered. Her smile fractured, only to be replaced by the pleading, anguished eyes of Jean Grey.

"Please Rogue... please kill me ... I can't control her ..." , Jean said, and her broken defeat was enough to rend anyone's soul.

It was enough to make Rogue consider her offer, but only for a millisecond.

"I ... I can't kill you. But I can take her away."

Rogue sounded more confident than she felt. She had, after all, never done anything like this before. But maybe, maybe if she focused entirely on the Phoenix, she could draw her in within herself.

A fleeting shadow of hope glimmered across Jean's eyes.

It was all Rogue needed in the form of agreement.

"Let me take away your demons," she whispered, as she lifted a set of trembling fingers, and gently brushed them across Jean Grey's brow.

The voices came immediately, at first shallow whispers, like the babble of a brook tucked deep within the canyon of her subconscious. But then they accelerated, crescendoed into the roar of a river, then a tumultuous crash of an ocean, demolishing the walls of her mind, and flooding everything. There were thousands of them, perhaps millions, and they spoke at once, happy, afraid, angry, hopeful. They overwhelmed her, and she gasped for air, but in vain. She screamed, but her voice was lost in the frenzy of foreign thoughts.

She was drowning.

Suddenly, the thoughts disappeared with unparalleled swiftness, and the voices fell silent. Then, through the stillness one voice rang out, clear, and absolute.

One voice. Phoenix's voice.

"Reckless child," she mocked, "Did you think your feeble mind could hold the essence of a God?"

Phoenix's laughter reverberated violently through her skull.

"Your body and mind are mine to command," Phoenix said, and her power echoed through Rogue's mind once more, forcing her consciousness to tremble beneath her. Rogue struggled to maintain a solid foothold as the constructs of logic, reason, and awareness shook and shattered all around her. She knew then that she was slipping, moments away from tumbling into the abyss.

But damned if she went down without doing some form of damage control first.

At that precise moment, Bobby remembered to breathe. He had watched, horrified, as Jean Grey crumpled to the ground, watched as Rogue surveyed the destruction around her with a pair of coal black eyes. He continued to watch as Rogue raised her hands, and commanded the fires to die, and the whirlwind to stop. The walls of water receded calmly, dropping back to the ocean they came from as though they had never left it. And for the first time that dreadful evening, relief washed over him, cool and serene.

"It's over," Bobby thought, and after checking Wolverine's vitals, he defrosted himself, and began to make his way towards Rogue, a thousand questions poised on the tip of his tongue. But, when he had crossed about half the distance, Rogue turned in his direction. Instantly her rigid, unwavering black eyes fell upon his. And when he stared into their fathomless darkness he, the famous Iceman, froze in his tracks, and shuddered.

"Bobby" she said, her voice betraying some warmth, some recognition. But her ruthless eyes continued to lay him bare, to pick at his thoughts. He felt his emotions bleed towards her from his mind, all his flaws and his deepest desires, all the thoughts he had about her, and the thoughts he had about someone ... else. Try as he may, he could not break away from her gaze, or her hold on his mind. He tasted blood against his lips, and realized that his nose was bleeding.

"Rogue ... stop ... you're hurting me."

Rogue blinked a few times. Bobby imagined he saw a small hint of remorse creep into the blackness of her eyes as he felt her grip on him ease slightly. But, all at once, a flash of pain flitted across her features, and she emitted a piercing, inhuman shriek as stumbled backwards, lifting her clutch off of him entirely. Bobby watched, aghast, as the debris around him began to rattle ominously. The cyclone of fire gradually began to pick up again, but this time, it was Rogue who commanded its every whim.

Bobby needed to get to her fast. His feet broke into a run.

"I can't control her Bobby ... she's too powerful ... my mind can't hold her much longer ..." Rogue spluttered when he had finally reached her. Bobby tried to steady her, clutched her shoulders tightly as her entire body became racked with spasms.

The next instant, her voice was different, colder, like steel.

"Foolish mortal!" Rogue spat at him, but the words were Phoenix's. "Blind puppets, all of you! You do not see the darkness to come, the darkness born of the minds of man. Let me cleanse the earth of its hatred. Let me burn away the poison embedded in the hearts of its creatures. Only then can the earth can be reborn."

With a thought, she tossed him away from her, and his back collided painfully with the rocky ground several feet away.

As though a switch had flipped again, Rogue gasped violently and dropped to her knees, her eyes clenched shut, her breathing harsh and irregular. Her hands manically clung to her head like she thought it might explode any second. When he met her eyes again, they had reverted to their original tinge of green, yet they were strained with exhaustion. His heart fell when he read the desperation held within them.

"I have to stop her. I have to stop her before she takes over completely, before she destroys anything else."

She stood up, and with seemly enormous effort, took a few steps away from Worthington labs and towards the tip of the island, towards the cliff against which the Golden Gate bridge pivoted, and Alcatraz's rocky fringes met the ocean.

But Bobby was no fool. He scampered to his feet, and froze the ground before him so that he could glide over it quickly and easily.

"Stop!" he yelled at her, panic lacing his voice. "You can fight her Rogue. We can take you back to the institute ... and –"

His limbs were too slow. Something was ... Rogue was somehow suppressing his motor functions, intercepting the signals from his brain to his legs. She was dispersing the signals that were commanding his body to do something ... anything ... to stop her, like freeze her feet in place. Even when she had reached the edge of the cliff, he was still too far away ... too far, damn it!

His heart stilled when Rogue turned to look at him, a doleful smile on her lips.

Then, she disappeared beyond the rim.

* * *

**A/N: **Hmmm... going through the last chapter again made me realize this one has an entire different tone. Darker, less sarcastic. Hope you enjoyed it. I kinda cheated, and took out the continuation for this chapter, with the intention of tacking it on to the next one. What can I say? This chapter needed to end right there! Thanks for all the kind reviews of the last chapter, and a special shout to the anonymous reviewers since I have no means of getting back to you :D. Anyway, please let me know what you think so far. And I'm off to edit the next chapter.


	3. Fall

**Disclaimer:** I don't have to keep saying this at the beginning of each chapter do I? I do? Well, in that case, I don't own the characters. Just borrowing, as usual.

Also, once again be warned that this chapter is kinda sad. And yes, I'm evil that way. Here goes...

* * *

No!"

Bobby yelled, too late, as he lurched forwards. But the instant he watched Rogue disappear, his limbs jolted back to life causing his feet to trip over themselves.

"Goddamn it!" Bobby cursed inwardly, as he fell, face first, to the ground. He didn't have time for this. He struggled to get up, his heart pounding madly in his chest. He tried hard, really hard not to think about steep rocky shoals of the island, or Rogue's slim chances of survival.

"Rogue!" he began to yell again, but then he noticed that the rubble beneath his feet had mysteriously transformed into a paved sidewalk, and that something had gone terribly wrong with his surroundings.

"Wha?" he stammered, unable to comprehend how Alcatraz had managed to sprout skyscrapers, streets, and a river in under a millisecond. Bobby's mouth hung open, and he gawked at the bridge that somehow materialized before him, and at the throng of impatient joggers who pushed past him to get to the other end of the bridge.

There was no doubt about it: he wasn't on Alcatraz island anymore. He was someplace ... else.

It took a couple of seconds for Bobby's disoriented brain to recognize his new surroundings. One look at the old brownstone buildings, the myriad of trees lining the streets on opposite shores, and the riverside esplanade meant one thing: he was in Boston. It was his home town after all.

But how in heaven's name did he end up here?

"Teleported?" he said out loud, ignoring the strange looks he was getting from the joggers.

"No," said his intuition, "You're not really in Boston. You are merely reliving a past memory."

Of course! Rogue had imprinted Jean's telepathic abilities ... this scene was probably playing out entirely within his mind. Didn't the Professor once tell him that a second in the real world was equivalent to ... a considerable chunk of time within someone's psyche?

But Bobby was not amused. He crossed the street with pronounced frustration, cursed violently when a cyclist nearly ran him over. But when he caught himself seriously considering freezing the bastard, figment of his mind or not, he realized that he, the Iceman, was on the verge of losing his world renowned cool. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he made his way down the set of stairs leading to banks of the Charles river.

As he expected, Rogue was waiting for him by the riverside, sprawled out on the grass, idly watching white sailboats float by like she didn't have a care in the world.

"I thought Boston was cold, and frozen," she turned her head to look at him, and he caught the slight amusement in her voice, "Kinda like you ... I thought that's why you liked it."

Bobby stopped in his tracks, unable to reply. Rogue was probably plummeting to her death in the real world, and yet, here she was, within his thoughts, making pleasantries about the weather as though nothing had happened at all. He wanted to yell at her. He wanted to somehow shake her to her senses, to tell her that if she could afford to play these mind games with him, she could goddamn afford to save herself using the telekinesis she acquired from Jean.

But when he glanced into her green eyes, enriched by the sun with a warmer hue of reflected river and trees, he saw the fiery essence of Phoenix, and the tremendous power she wielded. And he saw Marie, and himself, and countless others, saw the roles time had written for them, and he finally understood that things were as they were supposed to be. He understood how all actions and outcomes culminated in that precise moment, and although he didn't like it in the slightest, he knew he was powerless to change anything.

So instead, he swallowed the diatribe waiting to spring from the tip of his tongue, and resignedly plopped down beside her in the grass. Lying on his back, his head against his arms, he watched the clouds shiver against the wind in the blue sky.

"Actually, Boston's pretty hot in the summer. And humid. But," he said, gesturing at the warm reds and browns of the trees around him, "this is the fall.

"I like it," she said, turning back to the sailboats, "I guess that's why I chose it from your memories."

"Why did you bring me here?" Bobby asked, angling up so that he could look at her, but all he could see was her back, and her hair fluttering gently with the breeze.

"To do this," she said, and before he could react, she had turned back to face him again, and he felt her gentle fingers trace his eyelids, and his jawline. He knew that it was all in his mind, but it felt ... so good ... and so real. She leaned forward tentatively, her white bangs falling carelessly about her face, and his heart beat faster with anticipation. Finally, her soft lips met his, and she kissed him with all the passion her mutation had repressed within her. He savored her taste, sweet, refreshing, like mountain air.

She pulled away, and her eyes were still closed when he looked at her again.

"I really should have snuck up on Dr. Grey long ago, if it meant I could kiss you. Even though it's all in our heads."

An intense sadness trickled through Bobby's veins, transported by his bloodstream to the tips of his fingers, and to his very core, making him realize what could have been. He was losing her now, and yet he had lost her long ago.

"Listen, Marie –"

But of course, she already knew what he was about to say, so she cut him off.

"It's alright Bobby," she said, and her fingers had migrated to his hair, tangling and untangling his blonde locks, "I know I've made things difficult between us. And I understand why you drifted away. Why I wasn't the only one you thought about ..."

Then, her face became serious.

"I want you to be happy Bobby. After all this ... promise me you'll be happy."

His voice caught in his throat.

"Marie, I won't do –"

"Promise me, Bobby."

There was something in her voice that made him look at her, made him say those binding words, although he knew he didn't have the power to fulfill them.

"I promise."

For a moment, they were both silent. Bobby relished the feel of her thumb, now resting soothingly against the corner of his lips. Suddenly, her resolve broke, and the eyes he'd been watching brimmed with grief. So he reached out to touch her, to force her to stay with him. But her breath caught, and she said: "God... you're so beautiful."

Then he was falling again. But this time, he was prepared, and he caught his balance in the nick of time as he jolted back to reality. And he ran, God knows, he ran. He didn't care that debris on the island had settled, and the whirlwind died down one final time. He didn't care that the wind shifted, and the sun appeared beyond the clouds of ash.

All he cared about lay beyond the cliff, and when he finally reached the edge, when he finally looked down, a heavy weight descended upon his chest, and the air around him became unbreathable.

And although Icemen didn't cry, although Icemen were the epitome of cool an collected, his frozen tears, likes shards of glass, shattered against the unforgiving rocks, and sank beneath the ocean.

* * *

**A/N: ** Please R&R, and let me know if you liked this chapter or not. Thanks for reading, and stay tuned!


	4. Slumber

**Disclaimer**: As usual, nothing belongs to me.

**Warning**: Dark themes, some language.

Thanks to everyone who's been reviewing this story. Your reviews keep me writing more! Also, the beginning of this chapter might seem like it has nothing to do with X-Men. But read on, and more will be revealed.

* * *

She had known a silence that was timeless. A silence so smooth, it was the surface of a lake on a windless afternoon, so consuming it absorbed the ticking away of seconds and minutes within its folds, until they became as intangible as a feathery dream, the wispy tendrils of a dissipating memory.

Nurse Janice Compton shut her eyes, and fervently wished for the silence to return, for time to slow down again. Perhaps, she thought, if she focused enough of her willpower on the familiarity of the past, she could open her eyes, and things would go back to the way they had always been. Her patients would be where they belonged: old Jason Ballard in Room 115, Rosy Kendal in 111, with the constantly replenished supply of fresh cut narcissus by her bedside wafting its delicate fragrance throughout the entire suite. And the silence of the longterm care unit would return, a silence that was comforting and dependable, like the steady hum of the overhead lights, or the staccato beeping of an EKG. But, as she inhaled, she did not breathe in the accustomed dose of the beautiful stillness she had grown fond of, but rather she received a disturbing lungful of fear laced with desperation and panic.

And it was suffocating.

So Nurse Compton opened her eyes to a scene where time chugged forward like an indomitable train.

"Patient's BP is dropping! Push four mcg's of dobutamine..."

"Another ambulance is up front. Move it people! We've got to get the patients out."

"Compton! We need a gurney over here stat! "

Nurse Compton sprang to action. But it was difficult work, transporting the unmovable, maintaining a steady hand and a stoic face when worry, even terror were etched into the features of the doctors and the nurses all around her. Their fear, predatory in nature, fed upon itself, multiplied with every shaky breath they took, and consumed their very thoughts and actions. Only her patients remained blissfully unaware of it, their faces imprinted with an untouchable dose of serenity, as though frozen in time beneath their impregnable slumber. God knows, she envied them. How could she not? Was it not better to be blind to a world mutilated by turmoil? Was it not better to shut off one's consciousness with the hope of one day waking up to a time where conflict became a specter of the past?

The incessant wail of sirens reproved her thoughts, reminded her there was no escaping the here and now, or the grim fact that their resources were tight, and the number of ambulances at their disposal limited.

"I think we might have a problem," an EMT finally said, forcing the hospital personnel in charge of the evacuation of the Howard Mason Ward to face a reality they had all suspected, but had hoped to postpone. "No way our last ambulance can fit the two patients we have left."

Doctors and nurses exchanged nervous glances. But Compton knew better, and resisted the urge to scoff at their hypocrisy. Surely, they must have known it would come to this. Despite the assumed perplexity on their faces, their conviction and thoughts were one, clamped down only by a false sense of propriety.

So Nurse Compton voiced what they could not say:

"We should leave the mutant behind. It's only fitting, after all. It's her kind that means to destroy the city."

Silence.

And then a steady trickle of murmured consent surged through the room, dotted here and there by a set of quiescent nods. Predictably, her peers and superiors agreed with her. It was, after all, the right thing to do. If there were ever an expendable patient, the mutant girl with peculiar hair and lethal skin was undoubtedly the prime candidate.

Within the flurry of approval, attending Dr. Jeffery Lang, whose features were known to betray a foolish idealism, looked hesitant.

"We never sequenced her DNA, so we don't really know she's a mutant for sure ...," Lang began tentatively.

"Oh please! We cannot touch her skin! We wear gloves when we handle her!"

"Are you guys forgetting that I spent two nights in the ICU after accidentally touching that thing's forearm?" Nurse Carson added animatedly.

"But," Lang continued, "We have no justification to leave her behind. Aside from her obvious coma, the girl is in excellent health. We mended her broken tibia and fractured ribs quite nicely when she was first brought in."

"The girl's practically brain dead. You said so yourself. You said that her MRI's showed no signs of neural activity, save the bit that keeps her breathing."

"I also said that the MRI's showed no signs of head trauma either, despite the nasty fall that had caused her other injuries."

"Which means she's been here over a year, and we still have no clue why she's comatose."

"So what?" Lang cut in exasperatedly, "We're going to leave her behind to **die**?"

"She's as good as dead already." rejoined Compton, the bleakness of the reality she was facing shedding away her remaining inhibitions, "Or do I have to remind you that the odds of emerging from a coma after a year are very slim?"

"Nurse Compton," Lang said admonishingly, using her title in an attempt to reassert his authority over her despite the rising color in his cheeks, "Need **I **remind **you **that **ALL** the patients in this ward are comatose?"

"None of them are mutants, Doctor. Save one, of course."

Taking Dr. Lang's angry silence as a signal to continue, Compton added:

"If you'd let us report her to the proper authorities long ago, we wouldn't even be having this conversation!"

Dr. Lang looked livid, but Compton believed in the soundness of her arguments.

"Guys, we're running out of time here ...." someone thankfully interjected.

"Maybe there's another way," Lang said thoughtfully, switching gears.

"We know she needs minimal life support. I'd take her, but I'm needed on one of the ambulances. Can't one of you can fit her in his car?" he added, turning to face the rest of his colleagues. But, the instant his mouth formed the words, an awkward silence descended upon the reception area, and Nurse Compton noted the deliberateness with which nurses and doctors avoided Lang's gaze.

But the good doctor was relentless.

"Peloski, you have space in your car, don't you?"

"I'm sorry Jeff, but the MCF is arresting anyone suspected of harboring mutants. I really can't risk that..."

"Terrance?"

"What? No way man. Those fucking mutants are bent on destroying New York, and you want me to help them? They're our enemies, for Christ's sake!"

"What about you, Susan?"

"Sorry Doctor. You can't expect me to bring that filthy genetic screwup anywhere near my car. I have a family to think of."

"Fine." Dr. Lang sighed resignedly, but his voice was lost in a rising crescendo of protest, "I said fine! Compton, help Terrance move Mr. Ballard to the last ambulance. Then, we can all leave."

Exhaling a sigh of relief, Nurse Compton carried out Dr. Lang's orders to the best of her abilities, after which she was free to leave. Felicity, her large overfed tabby, was waiting for her in her car, and Compton knew how dangerous it was to linger any longer than she needed to.

Yet somehow, the mutant's room drew her in: she couldn't explain how she found herself gazing at the girl's faultless slumber from her bedside. Perhaps she wanted to take one last glance at the specimen of a people whose strange and powerful abilities threatened her very lifestyle. Perhaps she wanted to flaunt her very small victory over the species who considered themselves superior just because of one fluke in their genetic makeup, who were currently uprooting her from her home, the city she was born in, who were threatening the homes of millions of people, and for what?

She was so lost in her disdain for the creature that she did not hear the swinging doors burst open, or the man and red-haired woman who marched through them until they were three feet away from her.

Nurse Compton blinked.

"Sir, we're evacuating the hospital. You can't be in here," she managed to stammer at last.

The man's brusque response threw her off balance immediately.

"Save us the speech, Missy. We're evacuating this patient ourselves."

Evacuate the mutant themselves? Nurse Compton all but snorted at **that** irony. She did not know what compelled her to lie at that precise moment, but something about the man unsettled her.

"You don't understand Sir. The hospital is taking care of the evacuations. The patients in this ward need special attention and the correct equipment to maintain them. I cannot let you endanger the life –"

"Trust me darlin', we have all the equipment we need," the man said, and he glanced at his companion, who nodded silently.

A sickening wave of familiarity coursed through Nurse Compton's veins. She knew this man. She had seen him before. But where? As soon as she saw the warmth and concern creep into his eyes when he glanced at the girl, Nurse Compton remembered she had seen him during visitation hours in the past.

But, she had also seen him on the MCF's most wanted list.

Her heart beat madly with realization.

"It's your call, Sir," she said hurriedly, wanting to escape the man's glowering scrutiny as soon as possible, "You can take her, but you'll need to leave soon. I hear traffic on I-90 is clogged the entire way." And without a glance behind her, Compton rushed out with one single intent: she needed to get to a phone, and fast.

* * *

"You sure about this, Jean?"

Sure? No, no she wasn't. Then again, when was the last time she had been sure about anything? It felt like a lifetime ago. Long before Alkali Lake, and long before –

No. She couldn't think about that now. She had a job to do, and Logan believed in her. Rogue's life depended on getting this right. She owed her enough to try. Still ...

"Logan, I haven't done anything like this in a very long time."

Although they had once rippled through her like billowing waves, she didn't even dare to skim the surface of people's thoughts anymore. There was a time when she couldn't have gone a day without shutting a door or leafing through a book with her mind, but now even a passing mention of her abilities made her feel sick to her stomach. Logan knew all this, and yet the small hint of disappointment she caught in his eyes was tantamount to slamming a sledgehammer against the confidence she had scarcely begun to coalesce.

But then he was at her side, his hands resting upon her shoulder reassuringly.

"I trust you Jean. I know you can do this. I know she's shut down Rogue's mind, but you can face her. You're stronger than her."

Jean glanced away from unwavering faith she saw in his eyes. Hadn't she seen that look in Scott's eyes so many times before? It was always the same, this protective look, the look that betrayed a certain belief that she would somehow get better. It made her feel like an impostor. And heaven knows ... she's been trying. She still couldn't comprehend how Logan could stand to look at her at all. She was nothing but a coward, a terrified child. She had waited far too long to help the girl brave enough to bare a burden meant for her shoulders alone.

"It's just a theory Logan. I can't be sure until I'm inside," she said, tugging the edges of her sleeves further down her wrist nervously. But when she realized she was drawing Logan's attention to her arms, she stopped immediately. There was only cruelty in reminding him of what she had nearly done.

And she too longed to forget ...

She also longed for ... something else. She couldn't quite label it. She only knew that her existence had become a meaningless, flavorless act. Maybe Rogue knew the answers that eluded her. She had, after all, saved her life. Perhaps if Rogue were awake, Jean could finally ask her what had justified trading in her own life. What had convinced her the life of one Jean Grey was worth living anymore?

Logan gave her shoulder a final squeeze.

"You know it's the best shot we've got. You ready?"

"I think I'm as ready as I'll ever be."

"Alright, Jeanie. But, you'll need to work fast.

So Jean closed her eyes, and allowed her mind to expand beyond the confines of her own awareness, meticulously tuned out the static of other ambient thoughts, until she could only sense the tingling periphery of neural activity emanating from her desired target. She had forgotten how exhilarating it felt, this melding of neurons, how liberating this merging of minds. But she needed to plunge in further, deeper still.

When she was deep enough, Jean found .... nothing. No semblance of thought, no echoes of sentience. Only a cavernous darkness that enveloped her, engulfed her sad attempt at courage with a voracious hunger. She gasped when she felt her heart drop, felt her consciousness sink through the seamless void that lay at the core of Rogue's mind.

Alone and lost, she was falling ... falling ...

Apparently, now she was screaming as well. Oh God ... she couldn't do this ... she had to get out ... she had to –

No. Wait. She was a telepath. She was Xavier's student, and she had been trained to handle a plethora of situations, some of which were magnitudes worse than the one before her. Despite her feelings to the contrary, she was not helpless. All she needed to do was ... relax ... focus ...set up mental barriers ... and there! She was no longer falling, but rather hovering within a void that remained unfilled, and a silence that was insatiable.

"Phoenix!" Jean yelled out.

But only the gaping emptiness seemed aware of her, and it swallowed her words.

"Phoenix, show yourself!" She challenged, louder still.

Suddenly, with a sound like a fuse being lit, a comet rippled down through the blackness. As it crashed into the vacuum around her it kindled a searing fire that encircled her, flickering threateningly in the shape of a magnificent, yet terrifying bird. Jean's throat went dry as she watched it fold it's wings and gradually coalesce into human form: a woman with fiery red hair, and eyes the shade of nightmares.

" I have awaited you, Jean Grey, for so very long."

Jean gasped as she felt her skin begin to hum with a familiar warmth. She watched with horror as her entire body began to glow with an ethereal aura, the tips of her fingers prickling with a sick desire to scorch everything in her sight.

"No! Stop!" she yelled, gritting her teeth. She doubled over with the staggering effort, as she focused hard on quenching the flames that threatened to burst from every inch of her skin.

"Do not resist me, Jean Grey. Do not resist your nature, or your power. Unleash the fire within you, and let it burn free. Let us reunite at last."

"No.... no. Stay away from me," Jean said, hoping to inject conviction into her voice, but failing miserably, "I want nothing to do with you ... I'm only here to force you to release this girl's mind."

"Nothing to do with me?" Phoenix said, and she laughed haughtily, "But you **are **me."

"No, no I'm not." Jean said, but her words sounded small, empty.

Phoenix wasn't listening to her. With terrifying speed, she had crossed the distance between them, and before Jean could do anything, she felt Phoenix's smoldering hand grip her forearm like a vice, burning away sleeve of her shirt.

"Is this what has become of you in my absence?" Phoenix spat, indicating at the long, thin vertical scars marring Jean's flawless skin with the utmost disgust. "You've hurt yourself! You have become weak, pathetic!"

Jean swallowed the shame rising in her throat, tried to quell the images Phoenix stole from her mind, images she had fought so dearly to bury, of a steel cold surgical scalpel ... of Logan's expression, wounded ... betrayed when he had finally found her.

With a telekinetic shove, she violently threw Phoenix off of her.

"I have so much blood on my hands ... because of you!"

"I did what you could not do. I shed your foolish connection to life, a connection that makes you weak, vulnerable. I tried to prepare you for things to come."

"You killed Scott! You killed my soul-mate, the love of my life!"

"A feeble, tin soldier. A sham of a leader and an inadequate match for you. Why do you resist me? Can you not see that we are one?"

"You killed my mentor. Professor Xavier was more a father to me than my own flesh and blood and you vaporized him as though he were ...."

"No, **YOU** vaporized him. It was always you, Jean Grey."

"Why won't you release Rogue's mind?"

"My power over this vessel was temporary. I shut off her mind to lure you in. To make you return to me."

"I'm here," Jean said, her limbs trembling with anger, and her voice gilded with white-hot fury, "And I say release her now, Phoenix."

Phoenix only sneered at her.

"Surely, you must know I am not Phoenix. I am merely an echo of her, a shadow. The real Phoenix resides inside of you, weakened, dormant, but awaiting the hour of return."

"You're **NOT** me!" Jean cried, and before she could stop herself, she felt her anger explode from her fingertips in a ball of flames. She felt the flames extend around her, like a pair of wings unfolding, and she smiled as the fire slammed into Phoenix, threw her against the ground, and then erupted around her like a prison.

Even within her cage, Phoenix managed to smile menacingly, forcing Jean to realize what she had just done. She had, once again, wielded a power that belonged to her darker, baser impulses. And she had liked it.

"I will do as you say, Jean Grey," Phoenix said, the sickening smile never leaving her lips, "I will recede into the background. I will return this worthless creature's mind back to her. But, only because I have won."

"You haven't won," Jean wanted to scream. But something was horribly wrong. Jean felt a strong hand grip her shoulder, and yank her back to reality.

"We need to go."

"Logan, I just need a couple more –"

"Now."

"Why? What's going on?" Jean said, as she watched Wolverine swiftly disconnect the various leads and IV lines attached to the comatose Rogue.

"Soldiers. Coming our way. Someone must have tipped off the –"

Before he could complete his sentence, Jean caught Wolverine's pupils widening, and for the first time in over a year, her mind felt the crackle in the air, tasted the static burst, and sensed the pull of a trigger before its gun actually fired.

Her instincts kicked in, a pure shot of adrenaline straight to the heart.

And she flattened herself against the wall nearest to Rogue's bed as Logan simultaneously dropped to the ground in one coordinated motion. She watched, aghast, as a large projectile, too large to be a bullet, screeched through the air, barely missing the front of her shirt, and wedged itself firmly into the wall opposite the room's entrance. It's metallic encasing sparked with jagged streaks of electrical energy, thin wispy blue flashes that pulsated ominously.

What the blazes was that thing? Was the MCF shooting electric charges at them now? Shit. They needed to get out of there fast.

Another compression of air pushed against the fringes of her mind, signifying an electric charge about to fire once more. Jean took a deep breath, and reminded herself that this was simple. All she needed to do was telekinetically dismantle the charge, or perhaps nudge it ever so slightly, enough to alter its course. Better yet, she could give the MCF soldier and aneurism.

But, for an instant, she hesitated. For an instant she thought about Phoenix's fire burning inside of her, and the old fear, all her self-doubt, swelled within her, paralyzed her resolve.

That very instant proved sufficient time for the charge to slice through the air, pierce her fragile skin, and embed itself beneath her right clavicle.

Pain.

Massively excruciating pain ... with every breath ... every thought ... it coursed through her body, jolted her heart against her ribcage. Was she upright? Was she going into cardiac arrest on the ground? Difficult to tell when her organs were burning. When thoughts became disconnected entities and vision became chopped scattered frames.

Someone, somewhere called her name.

Yet the floor was cold and soothing against her cheek. She could understand it, understand its rigidity, its smoothness, and she clung to its flawless logic as she tried to comprehend the images that flashed before her eyes.

A glint of metal. A volley of shots.

Soldiers.

Screaming.

Blood.

Amidst it all, Wolverine. Slashing charges in the air with successive swipes of his claws. Ramming soldiers with the full onslaught of adamantium propelled rage. Wolverine, with soldiers falling all around him.

But an endless supply of soldiers continued to materialize in a flurry of black.

"Logan" Jean called, a warning, and yet nothing more than a whisper too late. There was nothing she could do to stop the electric charge that crashed into Wolverine's chest with a sickening buzz.

Wolverine's eyes rolled back in his head, and his mouth frothed over as he dropped to the ground beside her, convulsing madly. Yet, all she could think about was his arm flung haphazardly a few inches from her right hand, with their fingertips almost touching, so close, and yet so obscenely far away.

How she longed to grasp Logan's hand, despite the blinding pain, despite the fact that her synapses were shorted and her fingers refused to react to her commands. If only to reassure him that she was still there to watch over him, the man who had given everything to disrupt her path towards self destruction. How she longed to comfort him, her protector, who had always believed in her despite the fact that she had let him down, time and time again.

* * *

**A/N: **Hmmmm, yes, a slight shift in pace. I've always wondered what a traumatized Jean, who had survived Alcatraz, would be like. Also, Phoenix is so wonderfully evil, and so much fun to write. But, what has happened? Who are the MCF? And what has gone wrong in the past year? Stay tuned to find out. Also, please review! Let me know if this chapter was confusing at all ...


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